Spit and a Prayer
by youthere
Summary: And so, we stumble along... A collection of 27 drabbles set throughout the Winchester's lives.
1. December 1983

**Spit and Prayer** by **Youthere**

Various **spoilers**

**Neither the characters nor the concept** are mine (in spite of wishful thinking). This goes for all future chapters.

Faerie godmother'd by **Elesem and CalUK. **Can't thank you enough, guys.

**AN**So, what this thing is, is one drabble set in each December since the Winchester's lives became... well, what they are. Some have to do with Christmas and some don't, some are quite cold and some sappy as hell, but I promise there are no miracles....

I'm posting one every day until the 25th, but I'll be referencing "my" days here in the UK. Guess calendars are a little complicated, globally speaking...

X

**December 1983**

He will sit on this couch again over twenty years later, and this night will come back to him in ghost impressions.

A woman with a sad, soft voice calling him honey. Dad giving him a cinnamon cookie and laying Sammy on the couch.

Curling up with his brother in the worn, warm cushions, Dad's jacket cocooned around them both.

The smell of leather and cinnamon, a string of lights in the window and Sammy's quiet breathing.

But mostly he'll remember his father's voice as it drifts over them in a soft baritone. Low and raw, shocked and frightened.

Angry.

X

**AN** Thanks for taking a peek, hope you stick with me :)


	2. December 1984

**December 1984**

John has been here before. About a month ago, he stopped at this same motel for a few hours of sleep.

He remembers waking Dean again before first light, hustling the groggy five year old and the sleeping baby into the car with a few hurried words. Then he'd knocked back some coffee and been in Nantucket before noon.

He remembers driving in darkness, when they came and when they left, and it will be the same this time.

He squirms on the lumpy mattress, trying to get comfortable. Maybe in a few hours, he won't feel so bone weary.


	3. December 1985

**December 1985**

Dean sits huddled on his chair, knees drawn up to his chest. Somber eyes dart to and fro, following his father's hands as they fly over the parts, fanned out on the kitchen table.

As he watches, the disjointed fragments miraculously arrange themselves into gleaming handguns and rifles, the small breakfast nook echoing with the rhythmic clicking of metal on metal. He knows not to touch anything, just watches, quietly memorizing the sounds and the fluid movements like a mantra.

Then he realizes Dad is looking at him: watching him watching, with a small, guarded smile.

Tentatively, he smiles back.


	4. December 1986

**December 1986**

Winter solstice was coming 'round again. Great, the season to expect trouble.

Determinedly pushing the thought away, John leaned over the desk and peered stubbornly at the manuscript in front of him. He needed to concentrate. But the smell was back: blood thick in the air. Blood, sweat and holly.

He closed his eyes and cursed quietly. It had been a year ago and he'd gotten the bastard good. This room smelled like paper, scotch and gun oil. No blood anywhere. Funny how his senses just didn't seem to agree.

He sighed and turned another page. Merry friggin' winter solstice.


	5. December 1987

**December 1987**

As Bobby emptied his Bud with a small, contented burp, laughter exploded from the other side of the table. He looked up in puzzlement, and into the grinning face of Sammy Winchester.

"You burped!" the boy informed him with undisguised delight.

"Uhm, yeah," he answered sheepishly. "You shouldn't... burp. It's... ah, rude."

In the seat next to him, Dean snorted and raised an incredulous eyebrow, an unsettling expression on an eight year old's face.

Feeling oddly flustered, Bobby busied himself with opening another beer, and wondered how John Winchester had ever talked him into, of all things, babysitting


	6. December 1988

**December 1988**

"Dude," Dean perched himself on the coffee table and pried the lid off their extremely well stocked first aid kit. "I _told_ you. Spiderman doesn't fly."

Sammy was sitting on the sofa, staring morosely at his bloody palms like a very small, pessimistic fortune teller. He sniffled just a little on general principle, face set in frustration more than pain.

He didn't look up at his brother's comment, just mumbled a stubborn "Does, too."

Dean rolled his eyes and started to rummage through the kit.

"Well," he said after a while. "Then I guess you're not Spiderman."


	7. December 1989

**December 1989**

Sammy had brought home an angel from school. The kids had each made one out of tin foil, cardboard and cotton wads.

John couldn't help staring at the thing over his mac and cheese. It perched beatifically on the scratched kitchen table of their rental, wobbling softly as the boys ate and chattered away. It looked malformed beyond redemption and had fallen over four times during dinner. But Sammy insisted it be kept on the table; it was for Christmas.

And John had to wonder; how does a mess of glue and cotton manage to look so damn accusing?


	8. December 1990

**ATHOR'S NOTES below....**

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**December 1990**

His father slid into the driver's seat with a satisfied sigh. The outside air still clung to him, smelling of kerosene, frost and ashes.

"Anything happen?" he asked, looking over his shoulder as he keyed the ignition.

Dean just shook his head and eased his finger out of the trigger guard, his hands stiff. The cold snuck up on you sometimes, in the stillness, sitting for hours with nothing to do but watch your brother sleep.

"Okay," his father said. "Okay, that's good."

His breath made small white puffs in the air when he spoke, but Dean didn't think he noticed.

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**AN**  
Okay, so I've not been posting anything but the drabbles themselves lately, because (yes, I know this is slightly, okay very, insane) author's notes looked disruptive on the page. But now, I HAVE TO say something, so I thought I might as well say it all. Get ready for some verbal diarrhea:

**First of all**, as you've noticed, this is not a new drabble. The new one is actually in the chapter for 1988. I just think that both this one and that one are much better placed like this, both in terms of the boys age and how the drabbles function together. Of course, I only realized that tonight and then I couldn't sleep until I fixed it. So head on over to 1988, and so very sorry for the fxxx up...  
Speaking of which: Yup, It's a half hour past midnight in my time zone, so.... I'm late. Won't happen again. Promise. Sorry. *Hangs head in shame*

**Secondly,** I don't post it every chapter, but I still owe a debt of gratitude to Elesem and CalUK, who looked over some of the worst trouble makers here for me. Not everything got the benefit of a second opinion, though, so as a rule of thumb, blame me entirely for the lame ones and assume the good ones are at least partly under the influence ;)

**Thirdly,** Please don't assume I hate John. He's my favorite character... I just don't have a very high opinion of him sometimes... :) And, parents, teachers, siblings out there, let me know if I screw up with the characterization of the boys as children. I don't have children, I'm never around them and basically have no idea what I'm talking about. So yeah, a little nervous, here....

**Last, but not least by a long shot,** Thank. You. So. Much! For all your reviews. I can't tell you how much your comments mean to me. But hey, if you're posting at all, I probably don't have to, huh? Just know that I'm reading your kind words with the biggest possible grin on my face.

Okay, phew.... that's off my chest. I'll just let the drabbles do the talking from now on, then. Thanks for reading....  
*Crawls back under rock.*


	9. December 1991

**December 1991**

Sam always knows how long Dad expects to be gone.

He can tell by the preparations: how his father packs, what orders he gives, how much money he leaves. But mostly, he can tell by watching Dean. The longer it will be, the tighter his brother is wound. The more often he checks the weapons, when he thinks Sam's not looking.

Pretending to read, he watches Dean surreptitiously slide a hand under his pillow and palm the Glock, just making sure it's still there.

And Sam knows he's not going to see his father for a while.


	10. December 1992

**December 1992**

Last time they met, Jim Murphy gave him a huge stack of Catholic exorcisms and protection rituals. "Prayers to keep the dark at bay," he said with a small smile, and it made John chuckle.

Because, sometimes, sitting in the car before a hunt, or on his bed in the dark, John tries talking to God like he used to, and finds he has no words.

But he can pray like this, now, with fighting words in dead languages, telling evil he'll kick it's ass. His Amen is "Go to hell", and it really does keep the dark away.


	11. December 1993

**December 1993**

The early light rolled over the road: cold, white and strangely opaque.

Squinting in it's unexpected brightness, John glanced in the rear view mirror. The boys were asleep in the back seat, tangled oddly, Sam's head angled awkwardly against the door. Dean had come along to burn the bones while Sam waited in the car, but now, they both looked equally exhausted.

He watched them sleep, bathed in the milky light, and smiled to himself.

But his smile froze, when he suddenly found Sam's eyes open and staring back at him, wakeful, dark and full of resentment.


	12. December 1994

**December 1994**

He perches the needle on the edge of the sink and turns on the tap with his elbow.

Dad's passed out on the couch and Sammy's sitting with him, the only sound the hiss of the water. It makes odd swirling patterns, veins of clear and pink flowing over the clouded porcelain, and he's quite content to just stand and watch it for a while.

Then he eyes the needle, lying in a pool of diluted red, and makes a mental note to disinfect it. As soon as he's sure his hands won't start shaking.


	13. December 1995

**December 1995**

John ran his whetstone over another knife, cursing the almost five feet of snow that had him trapped indoors. It disgusted him, thinking of a wendigo stalking the winter forests, while he just sat on his ass, in his tiny cabin, playing with his useless weapons.

Placing a shining blade on the table and grumbling another curse under his breath, he glanced up at his sons, two sprawling teenagers on the sofa.

As he did, Sam looked up, shot his father a small smile and then bent over his books again.

And for some reason, the curses died on John's lips.


	14. December 1996

**December 1996**

There was a cardboard Santa dancing on the wall.

_Actually_, some distant, logical part of his muddled brain offered, it was probably not _really_ dancing. Maybe there was a draft, or maybe he was really, _really_ sedated.

Dean raised his head fractionally from the pillow and squinted at the thing. It was garishly colorful and covered in glitter, a failed attempt to bring the cheer of the season to the ICU. It also had red, bulging cheeks, and grinned like someone on more drugs than he was.

If his brother had put that there, he was going to kill him.


	15. December 1997

**December 1997**

The cold had driven a crowd inside, but Sam had long since learned to block out unwanted company.

The drone of voices beat against his eardrums: laughing, shouting, drawling, murmuring, crying, shrieking, giggling. Agressively cheerful, but ultimately unheeded.  
Hunched over his books, he ignored their jabbing elbows, their season's greetings, their spilled drinks. Ignored the stench of cigarettes, cheap perfume and a dozen different kinds of sweat.

But he could still hear the sharp click of the cue ball hitting home, and the pitch of his brother's voice: a perfect imitation of innocent enthusiasm.  
Dean he could always hear.


	16. December 1998

**December 1998**

It came to him in ragged tatters, his father's voice from miles away.

Only later did the emotions in it register: the fear, the relief, the almost hysteria. Right then, it was simply random sound; washing over him while his little brother's blood seeped through his fingers.  
"It's okay... he'll be okay, it's okay... Dean... it's okay, you did good... he'll be okay..."

A mantra, a prayer, or maybe it was begging, as the flashes from the approaching ambulance danced over them, shimmering Christmas lights for his battered family.  
"... okay... Dean? It's okay..."


	17. December 1999

**December 1999**

Sam squinted incredulously at the shot glass in front of him. It was white, red and green. "What _is_ that?"

_"Skid Row Mistletoe,"_ came the answer, brimming with enthusiasm.

"You're kidding, right?" He shuffled his feet, looking beseechingly at Dean, but his brother simply shot him a huge grin and Sam sighed in resignation. "You're the only person in the world who would actually order this, you know."

Dean just shrugged and downed his _Mistletoe_. Then, sending his brother another, even more disturbing grin, he waved to the bartender.

"Sweetheart? Can also we get a couple of _Santa's Rash_?"


	18. December 2000

**December 2000**

It makes him think of this warehouse loft in Iowa. They were hunting a spirit there, some months back, and the whole building collapsed. They'd gotten out before it crumbled, but it was damn close.

Now, watching his father and brother on opposite sides of the table, each staring angrily at the wall beside the other's head, he realizes they won't hold out like this much longer.

And Dean is suddenly reminded of the vertigo. The sickening feeling of floorboards drifting apart right under his feet, the thunder of support beams breaking.

A stark, empty void waiting below.

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**AN **

Okey dokey, well rested and fed (mommy's rock!), I'm back at it: three for one as promised :) I'm posting the drabbles for Dec 16., 17. and 18. now, and 19. in the morning (okay, let's be realistic: afternoon ) and then I'm all caught up.

Hope these are worth the wait :)

And cheers, Amy: that PM was oh so very good for my ego :) Actually, maybe too good, you'll have to say something mean so I don't over inflate :)


	19. December 2001

**December 2001**

He wonders how the fear went away so quickly. The bone deep terror that used to keep him awake for whole nights, just listening to make sure his babies were still breathing.

He doesn't know how he stopped being scared to leave them alone, convinced he'd come back to smoke and ashes, but now he wishes he did.

Because the moment Sam slammed the door behind him, all the fear welled up again, rank and fierce. Fresh as that night in his burning home.

He wishes he knew how he did it, he wishes hard he could do it again.


	20. December 2002

**December 2002**

He knocked on Jessica Moore's door and then kinda wished he hadn't.

They had only gone out twice, she'd probably think this was weird. She'd think _he_ was weird. He shifted his weight and swallowed thickly. Maybe she'd be right.

By the time she opened the door, the parcel he'd brought her was crumpled, and slightly crushed from being squeezed too hard. But he still handed it over, mumbling awkwardly, and watched as her face flushed in delighted surprise.

And then he knew he'd gotten it right. Maybe normal wasn't all that tricky.


	21. December 2003

**December 2003**

_Friggin' December._ Even the best stations completely lost it, and started spouting Hallmark shit about snow and baby reindeer. Dean silenced the radio with a grumble and dove into his tape collection.

The engine hummed quietly through the sudden silence, and the light from the passing lamp posts ghosted over the empty passenger seat, bathing the leather in a yellowish glow.

In the absence of distraction, his gaze strayed over, lingering on the cold and silent spot.

Then his fingers closed around a Zeppelin tape and, as the music boomed, Dean nailed his eyes firmly back on the road.


	22. December 2004

**December 2004**

A storm is crawling over the horizon, filling the air with electricity.

He remembers how Mary hated those. She'd grow anxious and edgy, and he'd put on an album and max the volume. Then they'd sing along, laughing like idiots.  
He remembers how she looked, dancing wildly around the living room and shouting the words to some random Seger song, while leaden clouds heaved and tumbled outside.

John jumps, as the first explosion rattles the windows and makes small, amber ripples in his glass.

Even knowing what he does now, he can't bring himself to hate thunderstorms.


	23. December 2005

**December 2005**

It's small. Like quiet scuffling sounds in the living room, heralding your brother's return to you, like a curt voice mail message, reawakening the hunter in you. Like two little droplets on your forehead, capsizing your life.

Sam stares mutely at it, vaguely realizing he can't breathe and his vision is starting to gray out.

It's small. An extra treat after their meal, brought with the check, because his brother's smile melts every waitress without exception.

But that doesn't stop the tiny pile of chocolate chip cookies, from yanking the earth out from under his feet.


	24. December 2006

**December 2006**

The smell of wet earth permeated the night air. It probably made most people think of gardening or camping holidays, but for Dean, it recalled an endless parade of cemeteries in the darkness. Open graves, moldering mausoleums, corpses closer to soil than humanity.

He breathed slowly through his mouth, letting the frigid air ghost over his tongue and tasting the moisture in it. For a strange moment he had the impression he was dissolving into it, a walking corpse finally rotting.

Then, his brother's match flared and Dean shook himself, leaning into the warmth of the growing fire.

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**AN: **Morbid, I know. But hey, not really a good year for Dean....


	25. December 2007

**December 2007**

He hadn't told Dean he'd bought cigarettes as well as the motor oil. He didn't really smoke, but ever since Meg, he found himself wanting one every now and then.

It was probably just stress.

He leaned against the porch railing as he lit up, and eyed his improvised Christmas tree through the window. His brother hadn't turned it off before going to sleep. The tobacco coated his mouth with a bitter, alien taste, which mixed badly with the after taste of eggnog and made him want to gag.

His fingers felt cold. It was probably just stress.


	26. December 2008

**December 2008**

It kinda weirds him out now, all those angels everywhere. They're creepy as hell.

Dean squints at the heavenly host gathered over the mall entrance, staring down at the Winchesters with eyes painted unnaturally blue. They have wings trimmed with twinkling lights, and a giant K-Mart logo rests in their hands like a sacred offering.

Suppressing an illogical urge to put himself between them and his brother, Dean shoots a glare at the leading figure, dark haired and sad eyed. Then he finds his eyes roaming in search of a bald, black one.

Oh, yeah. Creepy as all hell, and heaven.

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**AN: **Merry, merry Christmas m'lovelies! Double drabble final post tomorrow :) Oh, and remember: nothing says merry Christmas like a review :)


	27. december 2018

**December 2018**

The scenery's not much. A hibernating forest on the edge of a tiny town; mottled browns and grays under a winter sun. For some reason, though, it seems to appeal to the man, sitting out on the porch steps despite the chill.

He looks tired but serene as he sits there, arms resting on his knees and hands loosely clasping a beer. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he lazily pulls another one from a six pack by his feet, and hands it over his shoulder. The newcomer wordlessly takes the bottle, long, tan fingers curling over green glass, and perches on the top step.

For a while, the two just sit there, eyes idly roaming the silent landscape.

Then, the man on the top step clears his throat.

"So, when do you want to get going?"

The other squints at the sun, eyes turning almost emerald against the cold light.

"Dunno," he answers, in a tone that would, to all the world but one, sound casual. "Maybe we should stay for a while."

His companion raises the beer to his lips, his expression also deceptively neutral. Before taking a sip, he answers quietly over the neck of the bottle.

"Yeah. Okay."

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**AN: **Okay guys, that's as close to a happy ending I can (grudgingly) give the Winchesters :) Well, serenity's not a bad ending (and hey, a whole 200 words of it...).

Thank you all so much for reading along. I knew this was a crazy project when I started it, but I honestly didn't anticipate just how friggin' grueling it would be. If then, nobody had read it, after all that work, I think I would have just cried... :-/ So thank you so much for taking a look, and especially if you took the time to let me know what you think. And you lovely ladies who have been coming by and reviewing regularly: you're better than Santa :)

Aside from finishing my fic _Narrate_ (I'm working on it, I swear!), I think I'm gonna take a bit of a fanfic writing break and try to do some original fiction. I'll be around, though, and I think I'll sign up to be a beta reader. I'm probably not much use with spelling and such, but I do love brainstorming with structure and concepts, and wording in general. So, if anybody wants a second pair of eyes for their fics, or just to get in touch for any reason at all, don't hesitate.

That's all folks! Have a wondeful Christmas and an even better new year :)


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